


Petty Coincidences

by SummerFrost



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Canonical Alcohol Use/Abuse, Happy Ending, M/M, Polyamory, Suicide Attempt, Week One - Soulmate AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-26
Updated: 2016-06-26
Packaged: 2018-07-16 11:07:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7265545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SummerFrost/pseuds/SummerFrost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first words your soulmate speaks to you are written on your body, but that doesn't mean fate isn't still a little slippery. So Jack clings to coincidences, Kent despises them, and Bitty isn't sure they exist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Petty Coincidences

**Author's Note:**

> This is for week one of the OMGCP Trope Challenge, Soulmate AU!
> 
> Thanks to my real life brot3, calypso-mary and alpha_exodus for listening to my ideas about this <3 Double thanks to alpha_exodus for the beta!
> 
> I love PB&J so much and I will babble with you about them [on Tumblr <3](http://yoursummerfrost.tumblr.com/)

_" Hey, you're Jack, right? "_

 

Jack had spent a lot of time arguing, when he was younger, about how unfair it was to have a soulmate that was impossible to find. At fifteen though, for the most part he doesn’t care. He's used to the little itch that crawls across his thigh whenever someone says the words, knows not to expect anything from them. Papa always told Jack not to worry about things he can’t change. It’s always sounded like good advice, so Jack ignores the panic that sets in every time the words come out and he has to find a response. It’s not even there anymore, the little tremor in his hands and the tightness in his chest. It’s not.

“Hey, you’re Jack, right?” The new teammate takes off his snapback, runs his hand through an unruly cowlick, and offers a handshake. “I’m Kent, Kent Parson.”

Jack tries to smile a little bit when he takes the hand. “Can I call you Kenny?”

“Holy _shit_ ,” Kent laughs, and Jack thinks it might be a bit weird how long this guy has been holding onto his hand. Jack always counts to three and lets go. Three’s a safe number. “You’re- yeah, call me Kenny man- fuck, um, you just said my words. Did I, uh, say yours?”

Jack looks down at Kenny’s arm, and sees the words written there. He’s thought about what he’d do when this happened, because eventually there would be a coincidence like this. “Eleven.”

“Uh, what?” Kent asks. He lets go of Jack’s hand to mess with his hair again. Jack wonders if he’s been cold this whole time or if it just happened.

He explains, “Eleven people have said my words since I got them.”

Kent’s smile falters. “I, uh- yeah, I’ve heard mine before too, a couple times. But I mean, I- it’s never _matched_ before. Doesn’t that mean…?”

Jack isn’t sure. He has trouble being sure of things like this, really. He knows that he wants to play hockey, like his dad. He knows that Kenny has a lot of freckles. He knows that he really likes chicken tenders. He knows that Kenny is the twelfth person to say his soulmate-words. He doesn’t know if it felt different than the other times or if he wants it to. But he thinks that Kenny’s smile is pretty nice and that he’d like to have someone to talk to, at least, because he has trouble with that sometimes. “Maybe. We could try.”

 

The first year is good. Kenny fills in a lot of the cracks Jack has, like pouring water through clay. Kenny is good at making friends and having fun; he likes laughing and climbing out of windows and feeling _alive alive alive_ like Jack has been afraid to feel. They click on the ice like no one’s ever seen. Jack knew he loved hockey but he’s never loved it like this, whooping and grinning, sloppy sweaty hair under helmets, joining in an actual celly after a goal, going to the party after the game.

Kenny drags Jack into things Jack doesn’t know, isn’t sure about, and sometimes that even feels okay. He takes him skinny dipping and to weird restaurants with food they can’t pronounce and they run laughing through hotel hallways at two AM when the world is supposed to be asleep. He holds Jack’s hand and slips his tongue into Jack’s mouth, his breath hot and rough and _alive alive alive_ when Jack comes, sticky and messy like all the other terrifying things about the world.

 

** …  **

 

Kent hadn’t known soulmates were supposed to fight this much. He was prepared for the fucking incredible sex, and for the way walking into a room with Jack in it makes him feel safe. But he didn’t know about the fighting. No one told him about the jealousy, the arguments about how to co-captain the juniors’ team, or the way Jack drinks so fucking much even though it doesn’t make him feel good like it did for Kent.

No one told him that saying, “I love you,” didn’t mean someone would say it back.

Kent is trying really fucking hard, okay? He’s really good at making Jack laugh (or he used to be. He’s not sure if Jack likes laughing anymore), and he taught him how to dance, and he’s the best at helping him through panic attacks. He tries to help Jack take his mind off hockey, tries to take him to parties or on runs or to try the new ice cream place that opened up downtown. A lot of the time it works, and they really are happy.

But sometimes all Jack wants to do is yell, and Kent isn’t good at yelling, really. He’s good at clicking himself off. He’s good at a cold voice and turning his eyes gray, cutting with precision. He thinks it’s funny, a little bit, because normally Zimms is all plans and little details and Kent is the tornado. And then when they fight, Jack hits more but Kent hits harder. He thinks maybe it’s a soulmate thing, that they trade like that.

 

It’s gotten worse now that they’re so close to the draft. Jack is always on edge, shaky all the time, and he keeps telling Kent that his prescription changed, that he’s _supposed_ to take that many pills, but he won’t let Kent see the bottle to make sure. They fight about that a lot, and Jack takes a pill every time they fight.

Kent tries to take Jack’s drink away at a party, because he just watched him pop two pills in the bathroom and Kent fucking _googled_ this medication, okay, and you aren’t supposed to have alcohol with it. Jack yells at him, in front of everyone, says he needs just _one fucking beer, Kenny_ , is that _fucking okay with him_? And it isn’t fucking okay, but everyone is staring, and when they fight Jack takes a pill and Jack can’t take any more pills so Kenny plasters a grin on his face and says, “Yeah, ‘course. Let’s go dance, Zimms.”

Jack’s hands tremble on Kent’s hips and he isn’t really moving with the music, just swaying back and forth.

 

When Jack wakes up in the hospital, Kent is there holding his hand. “I’m gonna be with you for this, Zimms,” Kent promises, his eyes so red from crying that they hurt, “No matter what happens.”

Jack tries to say something but he coughs, long and hard and scary; they had to shove a tube down his throat to get what was left of the pills back out. Kent had watched. Jack tries again and manages to rasp out, “Don’t.”

Kent feels cold, really fucking cold, even though he’s wearing a tee shirt and a flannel and a sweatshirt because the AC is on really high. “I- Zimms, what do you mean? Of course I’ll be here; I’m your soulmate.”

Jack shakes his head slowly and whispers, “You’re not, Kenny. How could- all of this happened, and you still think that?”

“Of course I do. We-,”

“It was a coincidence-,”

“We said the words, Zimms-,” and Kent is panicking now, because he _knows_ , he’s always fucking known, that they’re meant to be. They _have_ to be. That’s how it _fucking works._ Fuck. He thinks he might die. He thinks he might throw up. He might already be dead.

“So have five more people since I met you-,”

“You aren’t thinking straight, Zimms, you almost fucking _died_ ; you’re brain’s just all fucked up. You’ll see- you’ll remember- you’ll change your mind. Don’t do this.” _Don’t do this don’t do this don’t-_

Jack slides his hand away, and Kent’s too stunned to grab it back. “You- you should leave, Kenny. We aren’t- this wasn’t real.”

But it was. It had to be. Kent still has pictures on his phone and a hat Jack bought him and three years of his life to prove it. Kent still has hickeys on his chest and a bruise on his thigh to prove it. Kent still has words on his arm to prove it. His life is marked up with Jack Zimmermann, drenched in him, and he doesn’t know how to scrub the stains out. Why would he want to?

There’s a heart rate monitor that keeps beeping _faster faster faster_ and the doctors said not to upset Jack. That’s why Kent stands up, feeling his joints pop with the fucking absurdity of it all, and walks to the door instead of arguing. He can wait. He has a lifetime. That’s how this works. “I’ll come back, Zimms,” he says softly, “I’ll come back.”

 

** …  **

 

Eric watches in horror as three hockey players rip apart the pecan pie he labored over. These boys are _barely_ using utensils, and they’re in a damn library, for goodness sake! He wonders if everyone from up north has this lack of manners, because Lord _help him_ is it going to be a long four years if so. There’s one other player sitting off to the side, an insultingly handsome man (sweet Lord in Heaven, who decided eyes were allowed to be that _blue_ ?) who’s actually eating with a fork like a _civilized_ person. Eric hasn’t actually spoken to him yet, but from process of elimination he’s pretty sure Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome is the captain.

“Hey, you’re Jack, right?” Eric asks, edging away from the pie massacre at the other end of the table. He thinks he sees the hockey captain twitch a little, but he can’t be sure. “I’m Eric Bittle. Um, the boys are callin’ me Bitty, though, apparently.”

Jack looks up, icy blue eyes appraising Eric. Dismissively, he answers, “Yeah. You need to eat more protein.”

It’s like someone punched him in the gut, but if he liked getting punched. Eric tries to sink into a chair, not taking his eyes off Jack. He misses most of the seat except his thigh catches on the edge and the whole thing flips over, sending him crashing to the ground with a shooting pain on his tailbone. “Sweet Lord- ow- Jesus in Heaven.”

“ _Crisse_ , Bittle, what the hell?” Jack is looming over him, a little worried but mostly annoyed. The others are staring. Eric can’t talk. Everything is all caught up in his throat, all the words he’d imagined saying when this finally happened. _It’s finally happening and this boy is so big and strong and handsome Eric could die_. All he manages to do is pull down the hem of his shirt, where the words are scrawled across his collarbone.

“Oh,” Jack responds, and it’s just now starting to sink in for Eric how completely unexcited his soulmate is about the whole thing. Is it because Eric’s so small, so _normal_ looking compared to Jack? Lord, is it because he’s a _boy_? “Twenty seven.”

Eric is still on the ground, he realizes, and scrambles to his feet. He thinks he’ll probably have a bruise on his elbow from where he whacked it against the table. “Um, I beg your pardon?”

“Twenty seven people have said my words to me, Bittle.” Jack’s arms are crossed and his lips are in a thin line. He walks back over to his seat, picks up his plastic fork, and resumes eating the pie he’d abandoned when Eric fell. To him, apparently, the conversation is over. Which is really just _preposterous,_ Eric thinks, and he won’t stand for it. This other boy might be jaded by the whole thing, but Eric sure as hell isn’t and he’s sure as hell not going to let it all get mucked up like this.

There’s a big long pause until finally Eric throws out, “No one’s ever said mine,” feeling a tingle in his side that might just be from the fall but could be something bigger. Jack seems reassured by that at least a little, enough to look up from his pie, and his eyes turn a little softer, so Eric continues, “Ain’t that supposed to mean somethin’?”

Jack looks over at the rest of the guys. Ransom and Holster are grinning and Shitty gives him a wink. His lips are still pursed, but he answers, “Maybe. Let’s try.”

 

**…**

 

The first year is hard. Bitty reminds Jack of Kent more than he thinks is fair. It makes Jack want to lash out at him, to chase him away. It was wrong last time. Maybe it’s wrong again. Maybe Jack just doesn’t have a soulmate. He has plenty of almost-ones. Twenty eight, now. Jack still has trouble being sure of things. He feels more sure around Bitty, though, and he thinks that’s a good sign. He thinks maybe it’s good that no one else has said his words since and that no one has said Bitty’s, either. Jack helps Bitty with his fear of checking. It’s a good excuse to get to touch him. Jack knows he likes touching Bitty.

There are some other things Jack knows. He likes focusing on things he knows. Jack knows that he still wants to play professional hockey, despite everything. He knows that Bitty has a scar on his stomach from when his appendix was removed. He knows that the dining hall in River Quad has the best chicken tenders on campus. He knows that watching Bitty’s helmet fly off and hearing the crack against the ice is the scariest moment of his life, scarier than when he downed a bottle of pills or when he woke up in a hospital bed, still alive (too alive). It’s the moment that convinces Jack that he’s in love.

 

The second year is better. Bitty makes Jack feel safer, warmer, and most of the time, Jack knows he doesn’t have to push anyone away. He’s becoming a better captain, a better friend, and he worries less about things he can’t control. When things get too much, when his chest gets tight and his hands shake, someone’s there. Mostly he worries about graduation. His last fall semester is almost over and then it’s just a few months before he leaves. He’s signing with the Falconers because Providence is only forty minutes from Samwell. It was an easy choice.

But forty minutes is still farther away than across the hall. Jack’s run a lot of numbers about how often he’ll get to see Bitty. He knows the numbers are accurate but he doesn’t like them. Normally Jack likes going over what he knows. It feels good to be sure of things. But Jack doesn’t like being sure of the fact that, in a way, he’s leaving Bitty behind. He tries to focus on other things, like counting the freckles on his soulmate’s shoulder blades or how much beer is in a keg and if he should drive out with Shitty to get a third one for the party.

 

**…**

 

Kent parks the Porsche across the street and looks up at the Haus. Somehow, it looks even more fucking decrepit than the last time he was here. He wonders if one day the whole place will kind of just topple over. Obviously hopefully with no one inside.

It’s been over a year since he last saw Jack and that didn’t exactly go well. It was just a mistake to come visit so soon after winning the Cup, because seriously, he should’ve known that’d be fucking hard to swallow. And honestly, if he’d known the team was throwing a giant fucking party tonight he wouldn’t have shown up, but the Aces are playing in Boston tomorrow and it’ll be a while before he’s back on this coast. Besides, one day Jack _will_ take him back. That’s how this works. Might as well see if it’s tonight.

Kent gets swept up in the crowd pretty quickly. A lot of the hockey players recognize him, especially the ones he met last time he was here, so it’s almost one AM when he finally finds Jack…making goo-goo eyes with an arm around some blond kid who’s even shorter than Kent. No, this doesn’t make sense. There’s an explanation. There has to be a fucking explanation.

Kent twists a smirk onto his face and greets, “Hey, Zimms. Didja miss me?”

From the guilty look on Jack’s face, it seems like _not fucking much_ . He smiles weakly and replies, “Hey, Kent.” _Kent?_ “This is my- ah- my teammate, Bitty- well, Eric.” Yeah, Kent’s sure Jack slings a casual arm around the shoulders of all his teammates now.

Kent holds out a hand mutely. Eric takes it and asks warmly, “Can I call you Kenny?”

Kent’s arm itches, like it always does. But that’s ridiculous. He knows this one doesn’t matter. It’s obvious. And he always says _no_ to the question anyway. _No, I prefer Kent,_ or _Nah, call me Parse, man._ But he hesitates when he looks at Eric, his honey-blond hair and smattering of freckles and crazy-petite frame. He wonders if people can really have a type since everyone’s supposed to have the one soulmate. If they can, he’s found Jack’s. Kent feels a little sick but a little warm, too, like he’s floated up out from under an avalanche and everything is still freezing but a little less than before. Kent hadn’t known he’d been in pain for six years but it turns out he had.

He thinks maybe he should be friendly because you shouldn’t hurt the people you love and he fucking loves Jack, obviously, and saying something rude to Eric would hurt Jack. He smiles at an old memory he thinks maybe they can bond over. “Yeah. ‘You need to eat more protein,’” Kent laughs, doing his best impression of Jack’s accent, “Zimms ever say that to you? He used to get on me all the time about- wait, what’d I say?”

Jack’s gone pale and Eric looks like he might drop to the ground on the spot. He has a hand over his mouth and his brown eyes are wide, so wide they swallow up half his face. Jack speaks first, hoarsely projecting over the crowd of the party, “What did you just say?”

“Zimms, I- I wasn’t trying to hit on him or anything, I just- ‘eat more protein’?” Kent can’t really figure out what the big fucking deal is.

Then Eric speaks up. The hand that was covering his lips drops down to tug at his shirt collar. “He said them. Word for word. I- fuck- what does that mean?” He’s looking at Jack with something that might be panic and Jack is trembling.

Kent feels a weird numbness in his mouth. “Wait, you said mine too, so- so then you two aren’t…?”

Jack is glaring at Kent now, which doesn’t feel fucking fair because it’s not like he said anything on _purpose_. “We are. I love him.” The words are protective. Like Jack is holding up a shield.

“I don’t understand, I- Zimms, you and me were supposed to be- fuck- but now _him_ -,” Kent flails, stepping closer to the other two. Jack takes a step back but Eric stays where he is.

“You’re…” Eric starts but trails off. He bites his lip and works the courage back up. “Jack said he’d met someone before. He said it didn’t work out.”

Kent barks out a bitter laugh. He pulls his hat off his head and works fingers through his cowlick. “Yep, that’s a way to fucking put it, yeah. I always thought-,” he pauses and tries to meet Jack’s gaze, but Jack won’t take his eyes off the alcohol-stained floor, “I thought we’d get back together. We’re supposed to, right? You don’t just _lose_ your fucking soulmate.” _Not unless they die_ , Kent adds to himself. But Jack didn’t die; he just _almost_ did, and almost doesn’t count. “But I guess he met you, and you matched, huh? And now _I’ve_ met you and- and this is some fucking bullshit, huh?”

“That’s a way to put it,” Eric echoes in a drawl, and he looks like he’s chewing something over in his head. He’s biting on his lip again and looking at Kent carefully.

“It’s a coincidence,” Jack argues, suddenly very loud, “Just a fucking _coincidence_. They’re just words unless you can back them up.” And Kent knows what Jack is really saying. He means that Kent was a mistake, just the pit stop Jack happened to make along the way. It wasn’t something Jack ever really put his faith in.

And who is he to fucking argue, right? Because Kent knows how _he_ felt. He knows that he thought Jack was it for him, knows that he’s been chasing this shitty brand of fate for six fucking years. That’s supposed to be how this works. But he’s a little less sure of that now. Kent’s always had a hard time with coincidences. They’re hard to believe in in a world where magic words show up scrawled across your body one day to help you find your soulmate. Kent thinks coincidences are worse than fate. They’re fucking petty and useless and maybe they’re all he’s ever had.

There’s been a break in the conversation for a long time, filled by a pounding bassline from ratty old speakers. “Sure. I guess I’ll see ya, Zimms,” Kent manages slowly, and he turns to vanish in the crowd, pieces of a hospital room flickering in and out of his vision.

“Wait, Kenny! _Stay_.” Kent’s been dreaming of those words. He’s heard them in his head a million times. The voice is all wrong. It’s got a southern accent and it’s higher pitched. But it’s good enough, so Kent turns back around.

 

**…**

 

Bitty isn’t sure what he’s supposed to say next. He was still going over it all to himself, letting it bubble to the surface, when Kenny turned to leave, and he couldn’t let that happen. Because he loves Jack, but Jack has never put enough stock in any of this business. Bitty doesn’t think it makes _any_ damn sense that two people could say his words, and one time it meant everything but the other it means nothing.

Jack is staring at him in shock, with pain mixed in, too. Kent seems relieved. Bitty takes a second to breathe and then the words are tumbling out. “What if it isn’t a coincidence? What if it’s all- maybe it was always buildin’ to this and we just didn’t know how it was all gonna fit?”

Kent catches on first. He fiddles with his cap and keeps running his fingers through his pale hair, which just fluffs the giant cowlick up even more. He asks, “Are you saying what I think you are?” His smile makes Bitty feel giddy and unstable, like when something boils over in a pot.

“It’s all fate,” he answers excitedly, reaching over to grab Jack’s arm to reassure him, “For all three of us, together. We’re all soulmates.” Jack feels cold under Bitty’s touch, and that means he’s scared, but he isn’t shaking anymore and he turns to look at Bitty with a tentative smile.

“Is that…possible?” Jack asks, looking between the two of them. He winces when the song changes to something electronic and grating.

Bitty ushers everyone upstairs into his room, which really he should have done a long time ago, but he’s been a bit too overwhelmed to think about things like that, honestly, southern hospitality be damned. In the relative quiet, Bitty answers, “I don’t see why not, honey. The whole dang thing is just- it’s about who you’re meant to spend your life with, right? And, well…”

Kent cuts in with a smirk, “No one said it had to be just one person.”

Bitty can feel the wildness in Kenny creeping out around the edges. He thinks maybe Kent’s already thinking about the sex, plotting out where to put hands and thighs and tongues. _Lord_. He shivers.

While Bitty’s been fantasizing about _Kent_ fantasizing, Jack has apparently been turning the whole thing over in his head. He slides a hand onto Bitty’s hip and says, “Okay.”

Kent blinks. Bitty tries to figure out whether his eyes are green or gray or blue. They flash rich green when he laughs, “Okay? Just- that’s all you’re gonna fucking say?” but when Kent leans over to rest a hand on Jack’s thigh, his eyes smolder like dark coal.

Jack shrugs and smiles a little. “There should probably be an apology in there somewhere, eh?”

“You’re shit at those,” Kent murmurs, and breaks the stare to offer Bitty a knowing wink.

Bitty feels rough and unruly, like someone opened up a gate he didn’t know was there and he’s running through this whole other place that’s just been created.

Jack’s hand is sliding up under his shirt and he’s on the ice at Faber, feeling his skates cut deep, fresh lines in the ground and the chill is so electric he leans down low to drag his fingers across the shreds of ice in exhilaration.

Kent’s tongue slips into his mouth and he’s under a tree in muggy Georgia, soaked in sweat that seeps down, down into his bones until it owns him, until he’s nothing but heat and tan lines and more _heat heat heat_ until he burns up and drowns all at once.

They ricochet off him and collide into each other, and Bitty watches six years of missing time burst into a splatter of bruises and teeth. He traces his fingers across the script on his collarbone and smiles.

 


End file.
